The number one question that I get when I tell someone that I write mystery novels is “Where do you get your ideas from?” Now, we both know that I have a carefully hidden offshore idea factory, that can only be communicated with via encrypted emails, but I can’t tell them that, because then I’d have to kill them to keep the factory a secret.

The second question is “Where do you start?” This simple question has both a nuts and bolts answer that we’re going to talk about next post, but for right now, we’re going to go deep and we’re going to go personal.

I learned to read in my mother’s lap.
I was a toddler, barely old enough to talk, and she was bound and determined to share her love of the written word with me. She held me close. Her thin fingers pointed. Her voice, patient and kind, helped me sound out the words and letters as we flipped the pages. Her skin went from porcelain to jaundice, her lessons from a hushed whisper to a raspy cough, as the cancer killed her.
She was gone by the time that I turned 6.

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